


stigma

by MamshieHelp



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Accidental Time Travel whoops, Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, viktor needs a hug, viktuuri, yuuri is there to give it to him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-21 17:33:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11949201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamshieHelp/pseuds/MamshieHelp
Summary: “If we had met in another world, and in another time, I can’t help but think how great that would have been. If... If only that were so, I wouldn’t fear anything. I could freely, truly, love you all I wanted.”-Yuuri Katsuki gets miraculously, for no goddamn reason, thrown back in time. If only he were thrown in an era where there was nothing but flower picking and rainbows. Unfortunately, history doesn't roll that way, and he gets thrown into the reign of one of the most horrible, gruesome, and mad monarchs of all time, Tsesarevich Viktor Nikiforov.





	stigma

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based off on the KDrama Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart. I will not copy the whole narrative into this story, only a few elements and some minor scenes that made my heart melt. The quote in the summary is from the drama as well. I recommend watching it because it r u i n e d me.
> 
> Bastard: A child of an unwed couple.
> 
> Not based on actual history.

Time was a fragile, _weak_ , concept.

 

Yuuri realizes that every time he wakes up, falls out of bed, brushes his teeth, munches on some three dollar cereal. Time goes by, swirling and swirling, before he knows it it’s already ten am. _Shit,_ he’s late.

 

Yuuri didn’t need to be late. He was a man of his own, held under the reins of no one. And yet he was poignant, conscious, but those were only cosmopolitan synonyms of ‘anxious’. He fidgeted behind his glasses, squinted without them. He’s _late_.

 

And yet being poignant, _conscious_ if you will, wasn’t enough. Celestino, the only mentor who was willing to keep up with Yuuri’s bullshit, sighs as he stares down at the blueprints, at the emails, _all_ of them screaming ‘ _rejected, rejected, you just got rejected_ ’.

 

“They won’t accept it Yuuri. I have tried everything that I could, but…”

 

“I know, I know.” Yuuri waves a hand, sighing as he runs a hand through his still damp locks. Being an architect in this world filled with stone mountains with golden chandeliers was surprisingly hard, not to mention the fact that new buildings are being built every _day_.

 

And yet, despite the need the world has for people like Yuuri and sleep deprived artists, sometimes things don’t work out your way.

 

Many a times, things don’t usually work out _Yuuri’s_ way. You would figure that a loser like him would get used to failure, and yet, the shadows of his wrongdoings sit atop his chest like a paperweight.

 

Celestino looks at him with pity. He _hates_ pity. He smiles and pretends that he isn’t breaking down into pieces, the little shards of him flying through the air like shrapnel, the little ones made of lead. Celestino sighs.

 

“Look, kid, take a break. The solar eclipse is going to happen later on; go watch it with your friends or something. Wear protective eye-gear, by god, I don’t want one of my best designers going blind.”

 

Yuuri doesn’t know where to start denying, the fact that Celestino thought he had friends or the fact that Celestino thought he was one of his ‘best’ designers. Yuuri wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t a pussy trying too hard to be humble either, so he’s not the ‘worst’. At least… not yet.

 

So he packs up, rolling up the wrinkled sheets of paper, chugging back one last death inducing sip of coffee as he drags himself out of the building. His converses pad against the concrete, his shoulders bumping against the people on the street, he doesn’t go directly back to his apartment.

 

It’s not like he _lived_ alone, he lived alongside a living meme and approximately six other hamsters, but there was something akin to the four walls of his sole bedroom that Yuuri didn’t want to return to for the moment. Maybe it was the pile of crumpled papers at the corner of his bedroom, yellowing and ripped, maybe it was something else…

 

Phichit texts him, asking him if they could watch the eclipse together at a nearby bar, Yuuri makes up an instant lie and pretends to be working. Phichit was a presence that Yuuri was thankful for, sure, but he wanted to be alone.

 

How funny it is, how Yuuri craved to be alone sometimes, and yet he _knew_ that he shouldn’t be. He should go out there, make amends, get a boyfriend, maybe even pay a hundred dollars just so some pathetic excuse of a doctor could hear about his problems for an hour. Which was better? Yuuri doesn’t know.

 

So Yuuri walks by the sidewalks of Detroit, kicking pebbles. News about the solar eclipse kept streaming in his ears. Yuuri knew he shouldn’t be here on the streets, he should be getting drunk and celebrating this momentous occasion with friends and family… _ha_.

 

He goes out of his way to buy those funky protective glasses everyone is wearing from a nearby shop. They were _horrendously_ expensive for their type, but hey, Yuuri doesn’t give a fuck for the moment.

 

He stops by the nearby park a few kilometers away from his apartment complex, avoiding the rowdy teenagers with starbucks drinks and their thigh highs, and leans against the railing that prevents him from plummeting deep into the river that streamed throughout the park.

 

He thinks and thinks, because that is what he’s good at, even if it wasn’t a good skill to have.

 

There’s a couple nearby, making silly faces at their phone as the protective eclipse glasses sit on the bridge of their noses. Yuuri’s converses nearly touch the water. There’s a red haired lady nearby sitting on a bench, a brown poodle by her feet, a blond child by-

 

Yuuri hears the gasps as people make sounds of awe, the sky almost darkening completely as the moon eclipses something that was a million times its size. It was almost poetic, like that one David and the Goliath story.

 

But Yuuri doesn’t care. Yuuri doesn’t focus. All he can see is the little blond boy, maybe ten at his most, wearing an oversized leopard print jacket as he stares up at the sky, watching the happenings as he unknowingly steps to his left to see more of the eclipse. His companion, _mother_ if you will, was too busy looking up to see that her child was beginning to go astray.

 

However, the child’s yellow sneakers graze the dock that led into waters underneath them, and he promptly falls in.

 

Yuuri could’ve put that in a movie if he could, judging from the crystal clear clarity of his memory of the event. He could look back from the future, wonder what kind of toll it had on his life. If it was worth it to jump in after that boy, a boy he barely knew, and risk a life that was anything worthwhile.

 

Nonetheless, Yuuri jumps in after him.

 

 

 

 

News was like a flock of ravens, flying throughout the wind and slicing the air with their wings.

 

But it was quicker, deadlier, and more powerful than anything.

 

People gawked when the castle gates opened, when servants lined the balconies with exuberant flags and tapestries, when chefs were made to cook for a sudden ‘feast’ that no one had known of as of prior. Even the king himself, still stone faced and unmoving, seemed to be moved by the sudden bustle.

 

And when people _did_ find out what was going on, news travelled faster than any flock of bird known to mankind.

 

 _“The Tsesarevich is coming home.”_ The ravens whisper. “ _Did you hear? Did you hear? The Tsesarevich is coming home_.”

 

Birds liked to peck too, picking and pecking and rummaging through the past until they unraveled past rumors and speculations. People were lined with fear, surprise, anticipation, a terrifying mixture of three.

 

_“Didn’t his majesty revocate him yet?”_

_“They say he is bound to stay in the castle permanently.”_

_“May the gods help us.”_

_“Did they find out about the family of the victim yet?”_

_“The mother is devastated, I hear.”_

_“If only he weren’t a royal, I would have gutted his head off.”_

_“Who kills like that for fun?”_

_“May the gods help us.”_

_“This is the man who will lead us one day?”_

_“May the gods help us.”_

There were many people in the courtyard.

 

Almost _too_ many, to be frank. The sun was high, the birds were taking in on whatever was happening down below, and the Tsar was growing very, _very_ , impatient.

 

“Where _is_ he?” Despite the calmness of his tone, his words were anything but happy. Despite the Tsar’s cold tone, the balding man next to him did not even blink. “I thought he was accompanied by your attendance?”

 

Yakov Feltsman does not remove his gaze from the impatient crowd in front of them, all of them sweating in their heavy armor and puffy dresses. “Aye, he ran off as soon as we passed the borders.”

 

The Tsar sighs. “I’m not sure whether I shall rejoice if he chooses to return or not.”

 

“Your grace,” A knight approaches their tent, sweat rolling down his temples in beady drops. “I am sorry for the interruption, but the guests have been waiting for over an hour now.”

 

The Tsar clenches his jaw, looking over at the crowd standing under the scorching hot weather, most of them already angry and impatient. As per tradition, the newly moved Tsesarevich should be the first to enter the castle doors as his guests and attendances follow him as a sign of good luck for his stay.

 

The attendances were here. The guests were here. The damn royal family was here.

 

The main attraction wasn’t here.

 

The Tsar just sighs, stands up, and everyone in the crowd perks up.

 

“Friends, family, I thank you for taking the time to celebrate this moment with us.” His voice boomed throughout the courtyard, the attention of all brought to him almost instantly. “As we all know I have invited you all here to celebrate the permanent moving in of my son, Tsesarevich Viktor of House Nikiforov.”

 

No matter how quiet the guests have tried to make of their whispering, it could still be audible. How controversial that single sentence was, how many rumors it has sparked in just a second. The Tsar clenches his teeth, almost biting the inside of his cheek, and he continues with his speech.

 

“But as it seems the Tsesarevich is in a delay. Now, I am well aware that I have kept you all in waiting for a prolonged time as of now, and I do not wish to keep you all under an uncomfortable situation any longer.”

 

There were a few audible sighs of relief from the crowd; the thought of no longer waiting under the sweltering heat seemed comforting. And the Tsar continues.

 

“So now, I am opening the doors so that all of you may rest. I am going to send out scouts to seek if the Tsesarevich is in need of any help, if he were to be stuck in a situation of sorts, let us just hope that he is safe-“

 

He is.

 

Everybody gasps as the large wooden doors that led to the courtyard bursts open, almost violently flying off their hinges as the guards manning them fly to the floor in shock.

 

A man on horseback enters, the stone under the horse’s hooves clapping like thunder as the literal embodiment of a storm sits high atop, face nearly concealed by the hood over his head.

 

Almost everyone was surprised, shaken by the sudden appearance. Everyone, but alas, the Tsar is unmoving, because he know too much. He _knows_.

 

The horse continues to gallop further, sending every guest nearby to run away to prevent from being trampled. The man riding it did not seem to care, he gallops further and further until the crowd parts like the red sea and he is situated _directly_ in front of the royal tent.

 

There was a pregnant pause; the man does not move, _nobody_ moves, you can almost hear a needle drop.

 

The ravens watch it all from above.

 

The man removes his hood, revealing a face with a charming smile and a head with shining, _bright_ silver hair.

 

“Hello, father.”

 

Viktor Nikiforov, son of a whore, royal bastard, and the next in line for the throne.

 

Everyone stands in shock, eyes wide and not accounted to the current happenings. A few chatter as juicy gossip and rumors begin to circulate, the ravens caw and get ready to spread the news nationwide, but more than a few are speechless due to shock.

 

The guests were expecting many things, but they were uncertain if this was one of them.

 

The Tsar remains motionless, staring down at the man with unmoving green eyes as every ounce of tension seeps into the atmosphere. “You’re late.”

 

Viktor’s smile widens a little, tilting to the left like a smirk, as he runs a hand through his hair to push back the curtain of silver that covers one eye. More than a few men and women get a hitch in their breath at the sight.

 

The Tsar exhales, the sigh sounding tired. It was barely even _noon_.

 

“Now that you’re here, now we can start with the ceremony.“

 

There was a pause. However, no one in the crowd could see the way Nikiforov’s eyes burned with intent, blue swirling with multitudes of storms. You could say he sort of resembled his father.

 

“Actually, I do not feel like living up to all the… grandeur traditions for the moment.” Viktor says, slowly walking slowly to the entrance doors that led to the inside of the castle itself, but before so, he faces the crowd, charming smile still on his face.

 

“Thank you all for taking time off your precious little schedules.” He says, maybe they were going insane, but his voice seemed to send a chill breeze into the crowd. “But as you all might have guessed, I’ve had a very, _very_ , long journey before me.” The Tsesarevich’s voice was condescending, the coo in his voice apathetic. “Now, if you excuse me, I’d like to take a warm bath please.”

 

A few handmaidens accompany and lead him to his main quarters, his stride tall and unyielding. Once the Tsesarevich is gone, a rather mild eruption of exclamations and chatter can be heard from the crowd, most of them furious, impatient, and most of all, venomous.

 

The Tsar just shakily sits back down and drinks the last of the wine.

 

 

 

Where does one begin with Viktor Nikiforov?

 

You can say that he is tall, taller than his father, the most powerful man in the entire nation. He was born as of late winter; a wailing baby boy brought into the world as the snowflakes danced behind their windows. It should’ve been poetic, happy even, but unfortunately lots of people beg to differ.

 

Little is known about his personal life, what mask he wears behind closed doors and away from the eyes of the public, but what people _do_ know is… quite interesting.

 

They say he was ice cold, like the day he was born. His smile dark and deceiving, the number of people he has lied and played with were numerous, the ravens whisper. They say his stride tall and unyielding, every step he took, no matter how faint it may be, sent a crackle throughout the room. They say he was cocky, prideful, too believing in his abilities.

 

They say he can kill multiple men from horseback alone. They say his skill with the sword and other forms of battle were extraordinary. They say he has slain thousands of men. They say he has slain thousands of _innocent_ men.

 

People talked, people stared, the ravens started spreading news every since the boy was born. How unfortunate he was to be born under so many shackles, despite being a royal promised with a life of luxury and title.

 

 _“He’s a bastard._ ” They all whisper. “ _He doesn’t deserve anything. He deserves to be kicked into the sty._ ”

 

His father had taken a vow when he married the Tsarina, a vow to complete fidelity and loyalty and to produce children of pure royal blood. A vow that was never, _ever_ meant to be broken.

 

Things change when the Tsar is caught with a mistress.

 

She was beautiful, eyes a soft blue with hair like snow. They say she’s a whore. They say she’s a siren. They say she has seduced and let the Tsar into her legs for the power, forth there is no one more powerful than the one who controls the Tsar.

 

Things turn even worse when he impregnates her.

 

The Tsarina is surprisingly calm about the whole ordeal, they say, and understandably the whole royal family tries to cover up the scandal. But ravens can fit in between crooks and crannies, hear conversations from the highest of rooftops, and rumors start to speculate.

 

They would’ve gotten away with all of it, until the baby is born.

 

His hair was silver, _beautiful_ and _blinding_ , silky and reminiscent of that one famous palace whore, and terrifyingly so, his eyes were _blue_ ; a beautiful, pale, _horrific_ mixture of turquoise, navy, sapphire periwinkle, _every_ shade of blue.

 

The Plisetsky family has ruled the nation for _centuries_ , a long line of rulers held with superstition if the family name were ever to be broken. They all had mainly golden hair, and _green, green green green_ , eyes.

 

There were many shades of green, but the Plisetsky family had always had a familiar shade of green to themselves, like a wild cat ready to shred you to pieces. The Tsar had green eyes himself, his hair being a dirty blond, and his queen having long brown hair with soft brown eyes.

 

There was no way they could excuse this baby having proper royal blood. The bloodline was now tainted with the seduction of a mistress and the shame of a Tsar.

 

Understandably so, they try to cover up this lie as well. They push him into the arms of the whore, order her to run off to whatever land, exile, death, whichever.

 

The ravens were too fast, however, and the counselors find out. It doesn’t take long for the people to find out either.

 

Many people fought, their fear of drought and famine coming up whenever they hear that the royal blood would no longer be pure. Superstition was rampant, forth having a man not of royal heritance running the kingdom would run the place into shambles, wise elders say. Fear always had its ways to thrive in the hearts of men, make them do unthinkable things…

 

Yet there is nothing the Tsar can do. Despite having another child later on, the eldest child is ought to take the throne.

 

Viktor insists on taking his mother’s house name.

 

This sparked more controversy and restlessness.

 

 _“I am not of pure Plisetsky blood,_ ” Viktor says one time, eyes determined and wielding ice itself. _“They say I am a bastard. Isn’t it more fitting for my name to sound like one?”_

There were other speculations as well. They say his skills extend farther from his physical attributes. They say he can speak more than three languages. They say he had a grace unmistakable to no one but himself.

 

They say his genuine, sincere smiles, a far stretch from his trademark smirks of condescend, were the most beautiful things in this world.

 

But like amongst other things, nothing was confirmed. Nothing will _ever_ be confirmed. Nonetheless, people looked at him with fear and doubt, all for his blue, _blue_ , eyes. It was unfair, really, that people chose to believe the horrible side of things rather than what really lies underneath.

 

But birds can be unreliable. This is what they say. _This is what they say_.

_He’s a monster,_ they say.

 

 _He’s undeserving,_ they whisper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _He’s beautiful_ , they think.

 

 

 

The water was surprisingly warm.

 

 _Nothing_ like the hard hitting wall of ice and cold that hit him moments prior, the water caressed him like steam was carrying him afloat. It was a terrifying transition, like jumping into the Arctic then landing straight into hell.

 

Before this, though, he swims.

 

He paddles and paddles, feeling the water wrap his lungs in a bear hug as his diaphragm contracts with every movement of his body. The river is, miraculously, much deeper than he expected. He could almost _see_ the boy, his yellow jacket visible even in the muddy water. Yuuri moves, feeling his glasses get strayed away by the water, the already blurry water muddling even more and he is at lost…

 

It’s fear that hits him first.

 

As he floats there, feeling the weight of the world crush his eyelids, he wonders _why_. He could almost see the last remnants of a yellow jacket in his vision as his anxiety comes back again, hugging him one last time, running its dirty and calloused little hands on Yuuri’s body.

 

 _“You can’t even save a child.”_ It whispers, the ugly voice muddled by the water. Yuuri wishes he’ll go deaf altogether. _“A **child**_.”

 

And then he wonders if it was all worth it, if it was worth it to drown over someone he doesn’t know. If it was worth it to lose a meaningless life that he had led, filled with broken dreams and failed promises. Was it?

 

Before Yuuri could answer anything, the warmth comes in.

 

And then; the surface.

 

Yuuri beaches like a goddamn whale, water droplets flying everywhere as he flings his torso upwards, breathing in the oxygen his lungs so badly needed. His eyes sting with blurriness as the water invades his irises. He heaves, chokes and coughs out what seemed to be an entire ocean from his lungs.

 

It felt like an eternity. _It **was** an eternity. _ Like somebody held his head under the water for _decades._ He felt ages and ages of pain and suffering sitting on his eyelids, like all he wanted to do was sleep until he didn’t feel any kind of horrid again.

 

After a few moments of heaving and generally doing the ‘trying not to die’ survival thing every human does, Yuuri realizes three fundamental things at the same time.

 

  1. He was _sitting upright,_ with the water reaching midway up his ribs.
  2. His ratty sweater and jeans were gone, replaced with soaking wet almost formal-like attire.
  3. **There’s a _very_ naked man a few feet away, looking at him with utter shock and bafflement.**



 

Notice how number three is bold? Finding out that you’re sitting in what resembled to be a hot tub when you thought that you were going to drown in a river is apparently less earth shattering than finding a pale, naked man a few feet away from you, just… just _standing_ there, staring.

 

Yuuri may have shit vision, but he didn’t need 20/20 eyesight to see his wide blue, _blue blue blue_ , eyes and ~~his more than average dick~~ in plain sight.

 

What was more horrifying, however, is the fact that they just kept on _staring_ at each other, both unmoving.

 

Until somebody knocks on the door that was feet away, making them both jump in terror as concerned voices start to echo their concerns from the other side of the room.

 

_“Your majesty? We heard some stumbling and somebody choking, are you alright?”_

The man moves to grab what seemed like a robe from a nearby chair, eyes still on Yuuri as that incredulous look stays on his face.

 

Yuuri… Doesn’t know what to do.

 

His brain, his stupid and uncomprehending brain, is taking an _awfully_ long time processing everything.

 

When the man turns to head for the door, Yuuri hears somebody hissing his name with a strange honorific that Yuuri does not deserve.

 

“Yuuri _-_ sama!” He whips his head to the side, eyes still blurry. Where the _fuck_ are his glasses? He sees the outline of a frantic boy with dark hair, peeking his head from out from one of the adjoining doors in the room. Judging from his frantic hand gestures, he wants Yuuri to _leave_. “ _Yuuri-sama!”_

He doesn’t know why, but every single one of his senses scream at him to _run_. Flashing one last look at the blue eyed man about to open the door, he scrambled out of the circular tub and nearly slips and face plants on the floor, but he reaches the boy.

 

As soon as they are in contact with each other, the dark haired boy with tan skin grabs his arm and basically dashes out of the room, into the adjoining hallways, running and towing Yuuri behind him like the man and the room Yuuri had appeared in was on _fire_.

 

All the while, despite him having shit vision for the moment, Yuuri’s senses have finally activated into hyper drive. His skin feels the unfamiliar clothes sticking onto his wet flesh. His nose picks up the musty, ancient-like aura of the surroundings, kind of what an old painting smells like. And finally, during the whole journey of endless running, Yuuri takes un the intricate walls, the olden candles and chandeliers, the strange boy who grabbed him and ran, and finally, the strange blue eyed man.

 

He’s surprised that his brain had managed to function, judging from all the running they had done, and while his thoughts were still muddled from water and the remnants of a boy in a yellow jacket, only one thought enters his mind.

 

_This is a strange dream. That, or I’m dead and then I’m either in a stoner’s heaven or hell._

**Author's Note:**

> Voila! Thus, the start! This is my first time uploading a fic, so ummmm *sweats nervously*
> 
> This is a WIP that I am not sure for continuation. Maybe no one will read this, who knows? Readers' response is very, very much welcome! It lets me know if any of you have liked this or not! Comments and kudos are lovely! So if you very much want me to continue, please do leave feedback!
> 
> I'm sorry for fucking up history, man, I had to research "Ancient medieval bathtubs" for this. Feel free to correct me if I fuck up any titles or anything!
> 
>  
> 
> [my shitpost of a tumblr](https://moshimamshie.tumblr.com/)


End file.
